Just Another Day
by DCKidWing13
Summary: It's Just Another Day. Or is it? *He* doesn't think so. Today is important. Today is a day to always be remembered...even if he is the only one to do it. (Rated for 2 or 3 words and a small bit of violence.)


All my works are _self-beta_, so any and all mistakes were foolishly made by me. **I do not own any DC characters**. If I did, there would be quite a few changes in the DC world. **I do not profit from this story.** If I did, I'd upload a lot more and a lot sooner, don't you think?

* * *

Just Another Day

He doesn't remember everything. He doesn't even try to pass it off as if he does. He does not remember every date that holds significance to himself or to everyone who is in his life—or _was_. He can't remember _all_ of those things. But he does try. He tries to remember because he feels that these are important dates. Dates that should be remembered. If he forgets them, then how can he be sure that they _will_ be remembered? So he'll push his brain every time, trying to remember. He has to. He knows it's not healthy; dozens of people have told him. But he just _has_ to.

There were certain dates he damned himself for not knowing—for not _ever_ knowing. Maybe he'll know the month or the week in which the date lies. But he doesn't know the exact _day,_ and that becomes his torture for the time. He began writing them down in a notebook, but it was lost in a fire. He cursed himself for that, as well. He cursed himself for forgetting. The one that he hated himself the most for forgetting was death. He always remembered his parents' death and the deaths of close friends. It was the deaths of friends' family and friends that slipped his mind. The deaths of those he was never very close to, but should have been. Those were the ones he wished he could remember. The ones he felt was wrong to forget. The ones that gave him headaches from racking his brain too much. Those were the ones that were important, but forgotten. And the only ones worse than the dates he could not remember were the ones he never knew. The ones he _should_ have known. Today was one of those dates.

He'd found out when this date was a few months ago. He was going through the important dates to remember for that month when a thought occurred to him: he did not know the date to an important event. Had he really forgotten it? It was then that he realized that he'd _never _known the date. It disturbed him that he never tried to figure it out. By not acknowledging this day, it's almost as if pretending _he_ never existed. And this, to him, was unacceptable, no matter what wrongs were made. A person is a person. And people _should _be remembered. So he had to find out the exact date of this important event in history, or else he'd never forgive himself. He couldn't ask Bruce, nor did he want to. And asking Alfred…it just seemed awkward, even though he knew that the older man wouldn't mind telling him. So he went online and found his answer.

That was months ago, and the special date had now arrived. He'd set a reminder on his phone's calendar to be sure to remember. He was never quite sure of what to do on a date like this. Dates of which he was not close to the person, though he would have _liked _to be. He did not know if he should do something special, or if simply remembering the date was enough. There really was not much he felt he _could_ do for today. So he figured he would just have to settle with remembering.

The day went on as any other. He went to work, received his assignment, and went out to accomplish his task. By this point, it'd become almost routine. He had come home from his long day only a few hours before he would have to start his _other_ job. He put on some music as he changed out of his uniform. With a slightly aching back, he took a warm shower to wash away the troubles of the day. After drying off, he pulled on a clean pair of boxer shorts, and suddenly felt tired. He walked into his living room, and collapsed on the couch. The thought of turning on the television did occur to him once or twice, but he was simply too mentally exhausted to even try. He sighed, rubbing his temples slowly with his index finger and thumb. In front of him was a coffee table that he mainly used as a footrest. He stared at the table for a while. Then, without thinking, he slowly hoisted himself up from off the cushioned furnisher. He cleared the coffee table and wiped its surface with his hand to remove any possible smudges. He then walked back into his bathroom and opened the closet. Still hardly thinking, he took out the only candles he had that weren't used to combat with bad odors. He counted three taller candles and five shorter ones. Now thinking, and knowing what he was going to do, the young man did a bit of mental math before replacing two of the small candles. With arms occupied with formed wax in glass containers, he walked back into the living room. He carefully set and aligned the three larger candles in the middle of the coffee table, followed by placing the three smaller candles in a similar fashion in front of the other candles.

He went into his kitchen, and retrieved a box of matches from one of the drawers. Also from the kitchen, he'd gotten a black Sharpie and a completely blank, white card he had bought the previous winter, upon knowing Bruce preferred Christmas cards without the holiday pictures and messages on them that you always found on a store-bought Christmas card. With materials in hand, he returned to the table in his living room. He set the Sharpie and card down on the couch before lighting a match. He slowly and carefully lit each candle before putting out the match and tossing it into the trash can across the room.

He sat down on the couch, Sharpie and card in hand. By this time, thoughts had already stopped entering his mind as he executed his non-thought-out plan. He crossed his legs as he took the cap off of the Sharpie, and placed the card on his raised leg. With a steady hand, he smoothly began writing with the bold permanent marker. After a minute, he set the card a safe distance in front of the candles. He walked across the room and turned off the lights before lying back down on the couch. The only source of light emitted from the glow of the six candles' fires. The fires danced and flickered as their smoke tangled together. In the dim light, the silhouetted figure, sprawled out on his couch, stared at the card. He blinked slowly as he felt a warmth overtake him. He continued to look at the card. He never took his eyes off of the letters he'd written. He kept rereading the name that the thick, bold print spelled out. His breathing deepened, and his eyes grew heavy. The candles' combined scents filled his nostrils. He let out a soft yawn, still watching the fire's light flicker across the name he dared to write. Sighing slowly, he buried his head into a pillow, his eyes' position unmoved. After only a few more minutes, the young man finally shut his eyes. As he quickly fell asleep, one name remained plastered on the back of his eyelids and in his mind. The name he continued to reread in his mind until he was fully unconscious. As he slept peacefully, the candles continued to burn. The white card continued to stand in front of them. And the written letters continued to read '**JASON TODD**'.

* * *

Hours later, the man stood on top of a building, gazing down unto the streets of Blüdhaven. The police force received an anonymous tip yesterday, saying that several gang leaders were going to meet tonight to settle a turf war. The timid tipper said the meeting was happening tonight at 9:00 near the abandoned apartments on Gillard Street. The man expected it to happen at any minute. He looked across the street and noticed a tinted vehicle parked slightly in the shadows. A similar vehicle was partially hidden around the corner. There were several people on the street who appeared to be going about their business. The costumed man knew they were all waiting, same as he was. He would let the police take charge of the operation, in hopes that maybe things could be resolved peacefully. But he was not so foolish as to not be there just in case something went wrong. And seeing how this was a _turf war in Blüdhaven_, he knew things were bond to go wrong.

Out of the shadows, a group of men approached the abandoned building, stopping once they reached the sidewalk. Another group came out of the building and walked toward the first group, stopping when their leader was within a foot of the opposing leader. Two more groups appeared on either side of the first two. All four leaders stared each other down for a minute. The leader of the first group said something, which prompted the other leaders to speak. Only a few words were exchanged before men behind the leaders in each group suddenly drew arms. One of the people on the street talked into a com-link as the others pulled out guns and ran toward the groups. The leaders of the groups moved behind the men of their respective gangs and disappeared as the hidden vehicles made their way to the scene. The costumed man prepared himself, watching carefully to see who would dare fire first.

The gangs continued their standstill, waiting for someone to take the first shot. Cops quickly surrounded them with their own weapons, yelling out orders for the gangs to drop their weapons. The warnings had no effect. For another minute, everything and everyone was still, including the masked man. Then he saw it, but was too late to stop it. A man from the first group turned and made the first shot. The costumed man immediately moved in, just as all of hell was breaking loose. He threw a smoke pellet and tried to get the man who'd been shot first to safety. The man was an officer by the name of Greeves who always bought coffee for people in the office. The masked man was relieved to see that the bullet only hit Greeves' shoulder.

After getting Greeves to safety, the vigilante immediately began disarming and fighting off the gang members. But as the smoke cleared, the gangs decided to turn their focus toward taking out their common enemy. One gang took the role of holding off the officers while the other three groups combined their efforts in an attempt to kill the vigilante. The masked man was doing well to avoid their attacks, until one man got lucky. The bullet only grazed his side, but it was enough to slow him down for a moment. And that moment was all the gangs needed. The vigilante attempted to get away, but another man laid a powerful hit to his ribs before he was able to. He fell to the ground and the gang members surrounded him with aimed guns and trigger-happy fingers. There was no way out. He always knew when he was beaten, and now was certainly it. He closed his eyes to accept his fate.

He heard a round of gunshots…

Then he opened his eyes to find the gang members around him no longer interested in him. Some of them were bleeding and others were clutching their guns for dear life as they searched the skies. The masked man wasted no time escaping from the unfavorable location he was in. He prepared himself again for battle as he heard another round of shots and saw several more gang members fall. Someone else was involved in this. As another mysterious round was fired, he quickly located the source and threw a well-aimed disc the direction. A shadow fell from a roof into a pile of garbage. The man ran to it as the officers arrested the few gang members who were unharmed. An ambulance and additional cop cars were heard in the distance.

When the vigilante approached the garbage, fighting sticks in hand, the shadow sat up, spitting trash out of his mouth in disgust. Moonlight shined on the figure, and the costumed man froze.

"Nice shot, Grayson," he spat out a seed. "But is that _really_ any way to treat the guy who just _saved your life_?"

The vigilante fixed a glare on the man. "What are you doing here, Red Hood?"

The man stood up and sniffed himself, then made a face. "Same as you." He pointed to where the gang members were being taken into custody. "What? Do you think the cops are the only ones who get 'tips'?" He brushed off his clothing and looked around him at the trash. "Damn. Must of left my mask up there," he said, pointing to the roof he was knock off of. "It gets kinda hot wearing that sometimes."

The vigilante continued to glare.

"Relax, _Nightwing_; I'm not here to fight you." He walked out of the trash and scrapped something on his shoe onto the concrete. "I only came for them."

"Listen—"

"Hold on. _Before_ you lecture me, remember that the _leaders_ of these gangs are still _loose_. Now, I saw one of 'em heading that way," he pointed toward the east, "and two more going that way," then the southwest, "and I'm gonna guess that the last one is somewhere over in this direction," and then to the general north. "Look, I've wanted to these guys down for months and I figured tonight would be a good night to do it." He shrugged. "Until you got in the way." He gave an accusing glare to the masked man.

"_I_ got in the—"

"Hey, HEY! I _said_ I wasn't here to fight you. If I don't get these guys soon, they're going to get away, and then they're going to be laying low for a _while_. And I am **not** going to wait that long to take them out. So I need to get them _tonight_. But they've already gotten a head-start." The man suddenly found the gun he'd dropped and holstered it. "Look, Nightwing, we both want these guys off the streets. So I figured, if we split the job in half, we have a better chance of catching them. So, I'll take these two," he pointed to the southwest, "and you take the—"

"I don't think so, Red Hood. I'm not in the habit of working with killers."

The man glared and said through clenched teeth, "You want to get these guys, don't you?"

The vigilante matched his glare. "I don't want to do it by letting you kill them."

"We're wasting time over this!"

"Then let's go!" The other man looked surprised. "I'll work with you to bring these guys down, but you are **not** killing anyone, **understand**?"

The man looked at him for a moment, then sighed. "Yeah. I hear you." The vigilante growled but the man was already fetching his mask before he could say anything further. When the man was completely "Red Hood" again, he glanced down at his temporary partner and said, "Let's go. The closest one is this way," as he pointed to the east. The two masked men travelled eastward in silence.

The leader of the Rivanni Gang was easy to take care of. Red Hood startled him with a gunshot—despite Nightwing's disapproval—and Nightwing undetectably delivered a sharp blow that knocked the leader unconscious. The leader was tied up for the police to find.

The two leaders in the southwest were a bit more complicated. They had come across each other and were already participating in a shoot-out by the time the masked men arrived. Nightwing easily fought off the leader of the Skiros gang. When he looked to see the progress Red Hood made with the leader of the Jingoy gang, he was not pleased. Red Hood had shot the leader in the thigh and in the stomach.

"Now, you be a good boy and wait here for the cops, or I'll have to put my third bullet in your **skull**. _Got it_?"

Nightwing swiped the gun from his hand. "What the hell's the matter with you?!"

"_What_?! I didn't kill him!"

"I can't do this. I _cannot_ work with a homicidal maniac!"

"I'm not a maniac! And I'm the best chance you got at finding the last boss!"

"I was handling things fine, Red Hood! And I'm sure I can find Quinzo on my own!"

The argument continued for several minutes as the leader of the Jingoy gang tried—and failed—repeatedly to get away without losing too much blood. The masked men finally stopped bickering and decided on a truce. They then headed off to the north moments before the police arrived to take the Jingoy boss and the Skiros boss into custody.

By the time the pair made it to where they needed to be, Quinzo, the leader of the Oznik gang, had already taken refuge in his gang's hideout. The pair silently entered the building, taking out numerous guards as they made their way to the main room, where they guessed Quinzo would be. One of the gang members spotted them and had sounded an alarm before they were able to take him out. Almost immediately, they were surrounded by armed gang members. They looked at each other, and silently agreed on a simple plan: Nightwing went 'that' way while Red Hood went 'this' way.

Chaos ensued. Roughly forty gang members were shooting rapidly at the masked men. When Nightwing saw Red Hood draw his gun, he made sure to emphasize the rules they agreed on when they made their truce. Amid the battle, Nightwing had been hit with a steel pipe, which broke the ribs that had already been damaged that night. He also received a bullet to his left foot by who he guessed was a new member of the gang. After several minutes, all forty or so men were disarmed and either unconscious or too injured to try anything else. Red Hood noticed Nightwing's limp.

"You all right?" He opened his arm to offer himself as support.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. You?" Nightwing accepted the offer and leaned slightly against the man.

"Hey, I'm not the one bleeding. Worry about yourself, man."

"Hold on, did you see Quinzo anywhere?"

"No, I thought—" They both paused at the sound of a gun loading behind them.

"Rot in hell, you bastards!" was the only warning they got before a round of shots was unleashed. Red Hood had just enough time to push Nightwing in one direction and to jump in the other. Quinzo kept firing wildly, and eventually managed to nick Red Hood's right arm. At that time, Nightwing had been able to sneak behind Quinzo. He was ready to attack when Quinzo caught his shadowy reflection in the gun and quickly spun around to shoot. But before he was able to pull the trigger, he fell to the ground in pain at the bullet that had entered his spine. Nightwing took the gun from him and tied him up safely for the police. He looked at Red Hood in thanks.

Red Hood smirked. "Well, now, that's twice tonight that I've saved your life. I'm thinking that you owe me."

"_pfft_. I owe _you_? Have you forgotten about all the times I had to save your hide? What about when you were kidnapped by your ex-girlfriend and didn't want Batman to find out? What about when you trashed Batman's car? What about when you were stuck in the girls' bathro—"

"All right, all right, I get it! You don't owe me anything! Geez, did you really need to bring all that up?" Nightwing chuckled, then winced in pain as he felt one of his ribs graze his lung. "We need to get you some help." Red Hood moved to support Nightwing's left side.

"I'll be fine. I've handled broken ribs before. And my foot? Piece of cake."

"Heh. And everyone tries to say that _I've_ got issues." Red Hood mumbled.

"I just need to get home. I'll call my doctor to meet me there so I can get patched up, all right?"

"Anything to avoid the hospital, huh? You really haven't changed, man."

"If you can just help me to my bike, I'll be fine the rest of the way."

"_pfft_! Fat chance. I'm not about to leave like this. Here, I'll take you to your apartment."

"Red Hood, you really don't have to—"

"Don't worry about it. Like I told you earlier, just worry about yourself. Besides, I owe you, right? I'm thinking this'll take care of a good lot of my debt."

"…Thanks…"

When the two arrived in the alleyway behind Nightwing's apartment building, Red Hood helped to hide his bike and to get him up to the window of his apartment. Inside, he half-carried Nightwing over to the couch in his living room.

"Thanks, again."

"Yeah, yeah." Red Hood started to make his way back over to the window.

"Red Hood? Look…I know why you needed to take out the gang leaders tonight. I know what today is. I know that it's the day you were—"

"Stop. Just stop."

"But…this day…I know it must be hard for you…but it's an important day…a day that should always be remembered."

"It doesn't matter, Grayson."

"Yes, it does matter. It'll always matter. If not to you, then to me it will." Red Hood partially looked back at Nightwing. "And to Bruce. And Alfred. You matter, Red Hood. And so does today. Regardless of the mistakes you've made. And you really need to know that."

The two were silent for a moment before Red Hood turned completely to face Nightwing. "…You should take off that outfit…before your doctor comes…"

Nightwing sighed and removed his mask. Red Hood turned back toward the window as he heard what sounded like a match being struck. "I'm sorry. For everything that's happened to you." Red Hood turned back around to see Nightwing lighting six candles. "And most of all, I'm sorry that I didn't give myself the chance to truly know you. To be a brother to you. Or at least a friend." The light from the candles shined unto a card. Red Hood's eyes widened when he understood what it all meant—what Grayson had done for him. "But that doesn't mean I can't still remember you." The match was blown out and the silhouetted man turned to face the man in at the window.

Red Hood turned back slowly and climbed through the window.

"And there's still something I have to say to you—something I wished I'd said before on all the other chances I had over the years."

Once again, Red Hood paused, but he didn't dare turn around because he knew what words were coming. They were the words he hadn't heard in so long. The words he didn't _want_ to hear. The words he _knew_ were going to be said anyway.

"Happy Birthday, Jason."

He sighed. "It's just another day." And then he was gone.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:****I first started this story over 2 years ago, but I never finished it. Today, I remembered that it is the 3-year anniversary of my membership on this site, so I decided I should upload something as thanks to everyone. I also figured that I'd been postponing this story for far too long. There was a lot more action than I first anticipated, but stories never go as I originally plan.**

**_Story Explanation:_**** The candles. In this story, Nightwing didn't have birthday candles, so he had to use what he did have. The big candles each represent 5 years and the small candles are 1 year each (I placed Jason at 18 years of age in this story).**

**_Side note:_**** Does anyone know the actual date of Jason's birthday? Or at least the month? Or how old Jason was when he died, or if there is a date for his death? I really don't know much personal stuff about Jason, sorry.  
Also, I forgot what Nightwing's "fighting sticks" are really called. Escrima or something? I'm starting to feel ashamed to call myself a Nightwing-lover (sniff).**


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